A Visit to a London Bookshop

Last evening, I visited one of Europe's largest bookstores, Waterstones, located at Piccadilly Circus in the heart of London. It is a seven-storeyed book store. Yes, you read it right. 7 storeys of books. Every floor caters to a different set of interests, ranging from Astronomy to Gastronomy, from Anthologies of Humour to Biologies of Tumour. The top floor also has a restaurant-pub where you could munch fried English mackerel as you go high on Hegel.

On the ground floor, festive sale was on, and I saw many at the counter getting their books gift-packed for the Christmas two weeks away. However, my time was mostly spent on the fourth floor wherein the Philosophy section is housed. It is by far the most well-stocked Philosophy section I have ever had the privilege of perusing (and mind you, I have explored quite a few). Although Bertrand Russell and David Hume unduly but understandably took up relatively more space, every major classic in Western philosophy published over the last century could be found. A massive mahogany table occupied the reading section, surrounded by only four chairs, all of which were occupied by septa- to nona-genarians, two of whom were, I am still unsure whether, philosophizing or meditating. And another one, confirmed by the thud of a freshly fallen book, was fast asleep. So, I had to read my Russell kneeling on the floor.

At 21:45 sharp, the book-keeper announced that they were closing in 15 minutes. So, slowly, I began my descent with my three confirmed purchases. And as I was exiting the shop, I must admit that, for a moment at least, a flash of envy did throw my steps out of balance.

Since schooldays, I have intimately harboured a rather romantic dream of someday opening a bookshop in my hometown, North Lakhimpur. In the scene I had just witnessed, 90-year-olds were braving a temperature bordering on 6 - 7°C to at least try to read or better still purchase a book confident to read it on a definite "tomorrow" they knew would arrive. People were sincerely buying books as the most special, valued gifts for their colleagues who they knew would read them. And this is not just the case in London. Even in the smallest of Western European hamlets I have visited, one would not have to struggle to find kids and grandmas spending evenings reading and shopping in local bookstores. I couldn't help juxtaposing this with the picture in my hometown, which I am sure resembles most small-towns across Assam (or India). There, forget shops having non-coursework books. Setting aside a liberal estimate of 5% curious rogues, one would be hard-pressed to find a serious work of non-fiction or literary fiction in the bookshelf of any person in the age-group of 16-35 (and we boast of a demographic dividend). 35 upwards until 60 is the perfect Grihastha phase. So why bother about books? And 60 upwards... Well, we take our self-imposed Retirement as a final condemnation to a life bereft of the book. And coming to gifts, has anyone ever even imagined the possibility of gifting a book to a grown-up colleague or relative as a wedding or Puja gift? Are books and celebrations even remotely relatable?

A huge majority of Indians still live in small towns and villages. The Calcuttas and Bombays might boast of Oxford Bookstores, but they don't echo the pulse of India. India's soul is still a rustic one, and it would be lost to postcolonial rust if we don't reclaim, reinvigorate our minds with that ligneous liquor of fresh, fragrant books that would push open the doors to my dream shop to a cerebral swarm.